


Catalyst

by TheStarvingWriter



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abandonment Issues, Angel Castiel (Supernatural), Angst, Gen, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, M/M, Pre-Canon, Pre-Slash, Self-Hatred, time-travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-24
Updated: 2020-02-24
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:41:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22884949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheStarvingWriter/pseuds/TheStarvingWriter
Summary: “I’m not going to ask again. Who the hell are you?”“Your voice is much higher,” the man remarked, his head tilting slightly, dark hair shifting with the movement. His voice sounded like he had gargled gravel, and then followed it with a pack of Camels. “It’s strange to hear.”
Relationships: Castiel & Dean Winchester, Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 6
Kudos: 251





	Catalyst

**Author's Note:**

> For one of my assignments in my college fiction course, my professor asked us to write a fanfic. This was born out of it.  
> Enjoy!

The Boulder Falls Motel had to be one of the worst places Dean had ever stayed at.

The carpet was positively filthy, the stains varying in size and shades of brown, and the pictures that hung on the wall so faded that they were an ugly beige. The green wallpaper might have been passable if it didn’t have designs that vaguely resembled flowers dotted across it, and the white popcorn ceiling had splotches of yellow marring its surface, undoubtedly caused by water damage.

Not only that, but it _smelled._ The odor of strong chemicals that burnt his nostrils was one thing—hell, he was _used_ to that smell by now, after twenty-two years of jumping from motel to motel— but mildew and decay was another, and he pulled a face as he set his duffle bag down on the bed, resisting the urge to pinch his nose shut like a toddler.

If the bedroom part of the room was this bad, then he _definitely_ didn’t want to see the state of the bathroom.

This had to be a new low for him, he realized as he took in the slightly yellow pillowcase and the intensely floral comforter. At least the majority of motels he had stayed in, outdated as they were, had been cleaned at some point in their existence. This one looked as though it had never seen bleach, or hell, even a can of freakin’ _Febreze_ in its life.

A part of him water to leave, to grab his duffle and march up to the front desk and demand he get his fifty-two dollars and thirty-seven cents back, before driving up the road to a better, maybe slightly more expensive motel that didn’t smell like the corpse he had just finished burning.

A part of him wanted to drive to Stanford, fall to his knees, and beg his brother to come back to him too, but that didn’t mean he was going to do it.

Instead, he went into the equally disgusting bathroom and showered, washing the sweat and dirt and death off of him, before standing under the spray for a few minutes longer, letting the warm water relieve the aches that settled deep into his muscles.

He stepped out when the water lost its warmth, shutting off the shower and wrapping a towel around his waist, making for the bedroom area but getting sidetracked by catching his appearance in the mirror out of the corner of his eye.

He almost didn’t recognize himself—the circles under his eyes were deep and dark, physical evidence of how little sleep he was getting these days. There was a mark high on his cheekbone, bright red and quickly turning an ugly purple. His lip was split as well and he ran his tongue over the cut, wincing as it smarted. His cheeks were hollow due to how sparsely he ate these days and his eyes were red-rimmed, inflamed.

He scowled at his reflection, itching to drive his fist into the mirror and just barely resisting. Last time he didn’t manage to hold back, which led to him having to pluck shards of glass out of his knuckles and sew the skin closed himself. It wasn’t exactly an experience he wanted to repeat.

Instead, he gripped the towel more firmly around his waist and stalked out of the bathroom, away from the heavy, penetrating gaze of his own reflection.

\--

An hour later found him lying in t-shirt and sweatpants on his motel bed, a mattress spring digging into his sciatica as he stared up at the popcorn ceiling, loneliness so potent running through him that it made his stomach hurt.

He wished fiercely that Sam was there, that the kid hadn’t packed up and left two years ago. He wished that he had stuck up for him back then, when their dad gave him the ultimatum of staying or leaving and never coming back. He wished his brother would pick up his phone for once, or at least send him a text saying that he was alive. _God_ , let Sam be alive.

He checked the obituaries in Palo Alto and the surrounding area daily, not breathing until he made sure his brother wasn’t listed among the deceased. It was a dangerous world—one that seemed to have it out for their family especially, and just because Sam was tucked away on a college campus in California didn’t mean he was safe from it.

He rolled over on the bed, relieving the pain in his lower back. Once again, he found himself half wanting to leave the motel room and sleep in the Impala, just for the familiarity and the comfort it provided him, half wanting to drive to Palo Alto, half wanted to drink himself into a vegetative state, half wanting to put a goddamn bullet in his brain—

_Whoosh._

There was a man standing in the motel room, and before he could so much as twitch, Dean had his M1911 pistol hovering between his eyes, fully loaded.

The man’s eyes— _blue_ , Dean noted—were the only thing that betrayed his surprise, as they widened a fraction when he noticed that there was a gun pointing at his face. His stare hovered on the gun for only a second, however, before it settled on Dean’s face.

Dean refused to be intimidated by the intensity of the man’s gaze, and he pulled the safety back to show that he wasn’t messing around. “Who are you?”

The man, who was dressed in what appeared to be a suit underneath a tan trenchcoat, gave that surprised look again, his eyes widening slightly. Dean’s eyes darted across his face, taking in the strong nose and slightly chapped lips, before settling back on the blue eyes, which seemed determined to stare into his soul. “I’m not going to ask again. _Who the hell are you?”_

“Your voice is much higher,” the man remarked, his head tilting slightly, dark hair shifting with the movement. His voice sounded like he had gargled gravel, and then followed it with a pack of Camels. “It’s strange to hear.”

Dean blinked, surprise taking over, before he pressed the gun fully into the skin between the man’s eyes, his finger hovering over the trigger. The blue eyes crossed, taking in the muzzle of the gun pressed into his glabella, before his stare returned to Dean’s face, this time amused.

“Bullets will do nothing to me,” he said calmly, and his mouth curled up in a ghost of a smile. “And I would prefer it if there was no blood on my coat. It is a gift, you see. From a close friend.”

“I don’t care,” Dean remarked, and his patience was growing thin. This guy was way too calm, and it both unnerved and irritated him. Not only that, but the dude’s stare was so penetrating it was making him uncomfortable. “Let me rephrase— _what_ the hell are you?”

The man looked up briefly, thinking, before his eyes returned to Dean’s. “My name is Cas. I’m… I’m a friend. Or, I will be.”

Dean snorted. “Right. A friend.” He completely ignored the ‘or I will be’ that the weird guy attached onto the end of his introduction. “How the fuck do you know my name? And how did you get in here? The door is deadbolted.”

“I flew in,” Cas said, as if he just told Dean that there was a chance of rain the following day, or that the stock prices had gone up.

Dean was silent for a second, before he pressed down on the trigger and fired, a bullet lodging itself in Cas’s skull.

He didn’t even _flinch._

He crossed his eyes again as a drop of blood slid down his nose and dripped onto his trenchcoat, and he sighed. “That’s going to be difficult to get out,” he mumbled, his expression downtrodden.

Dean, who had taken a step back when he realized that a bullet to the frontal lobe didn’t have any affect, watched as the dude licked his thumb and started scrubbing the small spot of blood, trying to get it out.

“What are you,” Dean asked, his voice less commanding and definitely _not_ fearful “Seriously. Are you… are you a demon or something?”

Cas smiled again, small and almost secretive. “No,” he drew himself up, puffed out his chest, “I’m an angel of the lord.”

Dean stared at him a second, before giving a disbelieving, slightly hysterical laugh. “Jesus Christ.”

“No,” Cas said, squinting at him. “I’m not—”

“Shut up,” Dean raised the gun again, but then lowered it when he remembered that bullets didn’t do anything. “Angels aren’t real. They _can’t_ be. Stop lying—”

“That has always been your problem, Dean,” Cas said sadly, his blue eyes pitying. It made Dean want to pump the dude full of iron, affective or not. “You have no faith.”

“ _Stop_ acting like you know me,” Dean said, and his voice shook in anger. “You don’t. I’ve never seen you before in my life. And angels aren’t real. They’re not, I know they’re not. No one’s ever seen one, for starters—”

“We haven’t been on earth in centuries,” Cas supplied, “Orders.”

“—you don’t even have wings, and I’m pretty sure angels don’t look like tax accountants—”

“My wings are broken, or else I would show you them—”

“You’re fucking crazy,” Dean said, glaring. “ _Angels aren’t real.”_

Cas shut his eyes, and for a second Dean was relieved to be free from the man’s intense gaze, but when Cas’s eyes opened again, they were emitting a bright, blue light.

Dean stepped back so fast that he tripped himself up, and he fell back onto the bed, scrambling to prop himself up on his hands. The blue glow faded, and Cas’s eyes returned to normal, and he took a step towards Dean, holding his hands up to show that he meant peace.

“I give you my word, Dean,” Cas said severely. “I mean you no harm, ever. I was just proving my divinity to you.”

Dean was having trouble breathing, so he nodded wordlessly. Cas looked at him a second longer, before his gaze fell onto the single bed, and then drifted to the window. “Where’s Sam?”

Dean was just starting to breathe again when his airways closed in shock (and okay, maybe a little bit of fear), and he managed to get out, “You know Sam?”

Cas nodded, his head tilted as he looked out the window. “Of course. If I know you, then surely I know him,” he briefly looked over to Dean, “you two are inseparable.”

Dean scoffed as soon as air returned to his lungs. “Yeah, sure. I haven’t seen him in two years.”

Cas visibly jolted, one of the first major signs of emotion that he displayed. _“What?”_

Dean raised an eyebrow, before rolling his eyes. “You act like you know me so well, but in reality, you don’t know shit,” he glared at him. “Newsflash, buddy, Sam hates me. He hasn’t so much as called me in two years.”

Cas stared at him; his eyes blown wide. “Dean, what year is it?”

 _Who even is this guy?_ “2005, dumbass. October thirtieth. Do you need the planet too?”

“No, I am aware of what planet I am on,” Cas informed, completely missing Dean’s sarcasm. “2005. No wonder you look so young,” he muttered to himself, before falling silent for a second. Suddenly, his head snapped up. “Your father. Where is he?”

Dean stiffened. _How does he know my dad?_ “He’s… on a hunting trip. Has been for a week now.”

He didn’t let any of the worry he was feeling seep into his tone. The angel(?) didn’t need to know how frightened he was that his dad hadn’t contacted him in a week, or that he just took off without telling him.

Cas stared off into space, apparently deep in thought, before he seemed to come to a realization, and he turned to Dean, his eyes intense. “Dean. You must go get Sam. He needs to help you find your father.”

Dean started. “ _What?_ ”

“This is where it must start,” Cas muttered to himself. “That’s why I’ve been sent back. I must be the catalyst.”

Dean stood, approaching the angel. “You’re not making any sense. Where’s my dad? Why do I need to find him? Why would I go get Sam?” Dean swallowed, trying to keep his tone even. “He… he got out; I shouldn’t drag him back in—”

“You must,” Cas said urgently. “Dean, you don’t understand. There is nothing more important.”

Dean, at a loss for words, stared at Cas dumbly. He opened his mouth to speak, to tell Cas that Sam didn’t want to see him, would probably slam his door in his face, when suddenly, Cas started to glow, emitting a soft white light.

Cas glanced down, noticing the light, and looked up at Dean with a sad smile. “I must return to my time, now. I’m needed… by my Dean.”

“You’re leaving?” Dean asked, and his tone was way too dismayed for his liking. He could almost feel the loneliness start to set in again, heavy and suffocating. As much as he didn’t trust Cas, he couldn’t help but feel a weird… connection, to the guy, and if he didn’t know better, he would call it a bond. He didn’t want him to leave.

“Unfortunately,” Cas said, and he sounded truly upset by the fact. “You may remember me, you may not. But you _have_ to go get Sam.”

“But…” Dean trailed off, his eyes flitting over Cas’s face. The angel gave him a smile, before he reached out and touched Dean’s left shoulder, and at his touch, Dean felt an overwhelming sense of calm and serenity.

“Good luck, Dean,” Cas whispered, and Dean’s shoulder burned slightly, a pleasantly warm feeling. He leaned in close, his mouth right by Dean’s ear. “Be strong. Be steady. I will see you in three years.”

With that, Cas disappeared, the soft white light vanishing with him.

Dean stared at the space Cas had been, his heart racing and his mouth dry. He could still feel the weight of his palm on his shoulder, the delicate heat that it provided. He could still hear his words, feel them hovering in the room.

_Be strong. Be steady. I will see you in three years._

Dean shut his eyes briefly, breathing, before he went over to his bed and grabbed his duffel, throwing what little belongings he had in it. He zipped it up and threw it over his shoulder, making towards the door.

He took a last look at quite possibly the worst motel he had ever stayed in, before turning off the light and shutting the door with a click, praying for the next poor bastard who ended up staying there.

He went to his car, pausing for a moment to run his calloused hand over its smooth exterior, before he threw his duffel bag in the passenger seat and got in, patting the dashboard fondly.

“Alright, Baby,” he muttered, putting the key in the ignition and turning, feeling the Impala purr to life. “Let’s go get Sammy.”

It was nineteen hours to Palo Alto. Nineteen hours to _Sam._

He definitely wasn’t short of things to think about.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm working on another Destiel fanfic, but it will be awhile until it gets posted. It's going to be a big boy lmao.  
> As always, feedback would be much appreciated! Thank you for your support.


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